Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Sulla
“Rise and shine. Today we climb.”
I’m already awake. Haven’t slept. Can’t stop thinking about last night. About Reid’s mouth on mine. About the way she tasted. About discovering I’m capable of tenderness.
About the fact that we have to face each other this morning and pretend nothing changed.
Across the tent, Reid sits up. Our eyes meet in the pre-dawn darkness.
She looks away first. Starts getting dressed with her back turned. The usual routine. Professional distance.
Except now I know what her lips feel like. Know the sounds she makes when I kiss her. Know how she trembles when I touch her gently.
I get dressed, pull on my boots. Try to focus on the challenge ahead instead of the memory of her hands in my hair.
It’s not working.
We climb onto the bus for the two-hour drive. Breakfast is eaten on the way. There’s a small toilet at the back that we take turns using.
After we disembark the crew directs us over to the base of the cliff.
At formation, Mac is standing beside climbing gear. Ropes, harnesses, helmets, carabiners.
“Partner climbing challenge,” Mac announces. “You know what you’re doing. Trust your equipment. Trust your partner.”
The training had been thorough—belaying, anchor systems, fall arrest, rope management.
“We’ve practiced on the shorter routes. Today is the full two hundred feet.
All anchors are pre-set. Do not alter the rigging.
Instructors will monitor. One climbs, one belays.
You switch at the bottom. Both must complete the ascent and controlled descent.
Time limit: two hours. This tests trust. Your life is in your partner’s hands. Literally.”
He’s not wrong. If your partner loses focus, gravity finishes the rest.
I glance at Reid. She’s staring at the cliff face, assessing. Military focus. Professional.
But when Mac said, “your life is in your partner’s hands,” her gaze shifted to me before returning to the rock.
We gear up in silence. Harnesses, helmets, climbing shoes. As per protocol we double check each other. The equipment is quality; production isn’t taking risks with safety.
Other teams go first. Trevor and Zay. Heather and her new partner, James. They all complete it. Some faster than others. But everyone makes it.
Our turn.
“Who’s climbing first?” Mac asks.
“I will,” Reid says immediately.
I nod and start setting up the belay, threading the rope through my device correctly. I double-check everything. Her life depends on this being perfect.
Reid approaches the cliff face. Chalks her hands. Finds her first holds.
She climbs beautifully. Efficient. Strategic. Reading the rock like a map. Her military training shows—she’s done this before, knows what she’s doing.
I keep the belay tight. Not too much slack, not too much tension. Just right. Watching her ascend. Ready to catch her if she falls.
She doesn’t fall. Reaches the top in twenty-three minutes. Excellent time.
At the top, she calls down, steady and controlled.
“Lowering.”
I manage the belay carefully as she descends, guiding her smoothly back to the ground.
She unclips and steps back, breathing evenly.
Our eyes meet briefly.
“Ready?” Mac asks me.
“Yes.”
Reid takes position at the belay. Checks my harness. Checks the knot. Tugs the rope twice.
“On belay.”
“Climbing.”
I start up.
The rock is rough under my hands. Good friction. The holds are deliberate but manageable. I find a rhythm. Reach. Test. Commit. Move.
Fifty feet up. One hundred. The ground recedes below me. If I fall now, Reid has to catch me. Has to hold the rope. Has to be perfect.
I don’t doubt her. Not for a second.
One hundred fifty feet. Almost there.
I reach for a handhold. Wrap my fingers around it. Start to pull my weight up.
The rock crumbles.
My hand jerks free. My body pitches backward. I’m falling.
The rope catches me hard. Jerks me to a stop. The harness cuts into my waist and thighs. I swing wildly, rotating, disoriented.
Reid has me. The belay held. I’m not falling anymore.
But I’m swinging toward the cliff face. No control. Momentum carrying me.
I slam into the rock. Hard. Shoulder first.
Pain explodes. White-hot. Familiar. The old injury from stress positions—the shoulder that never healed quite right—I clench my teeth and hold back a scream as the impact vibrates through the joint.
For a second, I’m not in Scotland. I’m hanging from a beam in Rome. Arms stretched above my head. Weight pulling. Shoulders dislocating. Pop. Pop. The sound. The agony.
No.
I force myself back. Scotland. Cliff. Reid has the rope. I’m safe.
“Sulla!” Reid’s voice from below. Worried. “You okay?”
I can’t answer yet. Breathing through the pain. Testing the shoulder. It’s intact. Just aggravated. Not dislocated. I can move it.
“I’m okay,” I call up. Voice scraped raw.
“You hit hard!”
“I’m fine. Give me a second.”
I hang here, getting my bearings. The rope is secure. Reid has me. I’m not falling.
I find the rock face with my feet and left hand. Steady myself. Look for new holds.
“Going again,” I call.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
I climb. Slower now. More careful. Testing every hold before committing weight. My shoulder aches but it’s functional.
The last fifty feet take longer than they should. But I make it to the anchor point. Clip in. Start the rappel down.
Reid is at the bottom, still on belay, watching me descend. When my boots hit the ground she unclips the rope and steps forward. Hands on my shoulders. Face worried.
“You okay? That was a hard hit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
I reach up. Touch my cheek. My fingers come away red. Must have scraped it on the rock.
“It’s nothing.”
“Let me see.”
She steps closer. Her hand comes to my face. Fingers gentle. Careful. Checking the scrape.
Her touch is tender. Concerned.
Her hand lingers on my cheek longer than necessary as her eyes meet mine.
We’re inches apart. Both remembering last night. Both aware.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For holding the rope.”
“Of course. I’ve got your six.”
Military speak. Partner speak. But it means more than that. She had my life in her hands and she held it. Kept me safe. Caught me when I fell.
“I’d trust you with my life,” I say. The words come out before I can stop them.
Her expression shifts. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because people who trust me get hurt.”
“Not by you. By people who failed them. That’s not on you, Reid. That’s on them.”
She’s quiet. Processing. Her hand is still on my face.
“You really believe that?” she asks.
“Yes.”
She searches my face. Looking for doubt. Finding none.
Finally she pulls her hand back. Steps away. Professional distance restored.
Mac checks us off. “Good climb. Good recovery from the fall. Solid partnership.”
If he notices the tension between us, he doesn’t comment.
We remove our gear. Neither of us speaking, but hyperaware of each other. Every movement. Every glance.
I make the mandatory stop at the med tent.
The cut on my cheek is cleaned. The bleeding has stopped, no other intervention required, it was just a scratch.
They check my shoulder. The bruise is coming to the surface but I have full motion, although painful.
I’m given two anti-inflammatories and my shoulder is taped for support. I’m cleared to continue.
The two-hour ride back on the bus is quiet. Trusting someone with your life like we all just did, with someone we’ve known for only a matter of weeks is life changing.
Walking back toward base camp, far enough from the others for something close to privacy, she speaks quietly.
“Last night—”
“I know.”
“We can’t do that again. Not while we’re here. Cameras everywhere. Production watching. It’s too risky.”
“I know.”
“But I wanted to. And I’d want to again.”
My chest tightens. “So do I.”
“So what do we do?”
“We wait. We finish the competition. And then…” I don’t finish the sentence. Don’t know how to.
“And then we figure it out,” she finishes.
“Yes.”
Her hand brushes mine as we walk. Brief. Could be accidental.
Neither of us mentions it.
Just one more week of this. One more week of pretending.